Salaud Allemagne!
by Glitter Griffin
Summary: When France invite Italy over for dinner, he gets a nasty surprise... Suckish summary sucks. Sorry. Dx


"Damn, why is Germany here?" France cursed, pacing the room. He'd excused himself from the dining room, where _his _Italian Angel was sat with _that _German Devil. Why did God hate him so? He'd done nothing wrong!

Well, except from completely ignoring the 7th commandment.

But come on, he was France! Committing Adultery was what he was famous for!

So he marched into his bedroom, closed the door, and then forgot why he was even in there. So he dropped down onto his bed face-first, and screamed.

Incredibly femininely, but nobody would find that surprising.

"Que salaud (That Bastard, not That Salad)!" He growled, taking his face out of the pillow and walking over to his favourite full-length mirror. Of all 47 he owned, this one was his favourite. Why? Because he made it, of course.

He unbuttoned the cuffs of his poet shirt, and then lifted it over his head, the ruffled neckline tickling his nose. He dropped it to the floor, turned, then looked over his shoulder at the mirror. He had once taken pride in being 100% hot stuff, but that changed in 1940.

When that damned German burned the Swastika onto his back.

Looking at it made him sick to the stomach. He'd never be able to forget about the war. Not now. Not ever.

He traced it with his fingertip, memories he longed to disappear, forever locked away in a box at the back of his mind. Pain, torture, death, shame…

He would have to live with it for his entire life.

And a Nation's life wasn't short.

"What _will _happen to me when I die?" He wondered aloud, letting his arms drop back down to his sides. But he couldn't come up with an answer. Maybe nothing happened, and he would hang around forever, like his close friend Prussia.

Or maybe he just… disappeared?

He sighed, walked over to one of his closets, opened it, and took out a plain white dress shirt. There was no way he'd dress up nice for _Germany_.

"France, where are you, ve~?" The familiar voice of Feli carried into the room, and the blond grinned.

"I'll be right there" He cooed, buttoning up his shirt, checking himself in the mirror one final time, and then headed off in search of the Italian.

…

"I'm going to bed now, ve" Italy announced, standing slowly. He wobbled on his feet, and teetered out of the room, leaving the two older nations behind. France eyed Germany cautiously, taking another sip of his wine. Ludwig had been rather quiet, not paying any attention to him during the meal. But as soon as Feli left the room, blue eyes met blue.

"It's been a while, _Francis_…"

"Lot long enough, Germany" He grumbled, swirling his wine. The blood red liquid spilled over the edge of the glass, splattering down his shirt. He looked down at it with a bored expression, muttered a monotonous 'oops', and stood.

"I guess I should go change then" He mumbled, placing the empty glass back on the table. He left the room quickly, grinning at how quickly he'd managed to escape. But, unfortunately for him, the duo were stopping over for the night. He hadn't really been paying attention when Italy had explained why; he had been busy chanting every vulgar word he knew in his head, both in English and French. Though he did hear something about Gilbert…

He shrugged, opening the door to his room, and leaned against the door, his already unbuttoned shirt floating down to the floor. He bent down, picked up his shirt, and flung it onto the bed. Or, at least, that's what he had planned on doing. But it landed next to his previously discarded poet shirt. He grumbled, sliding to the floor and running a hand through his wavy blond hair. Today really wasn't his day…

"C'est tout ce que l'Allemagne de l'erreur (It's all that Germany's fault)" He growled, not bothering to speak English. Why should he? He was the only one there!

Or so he thought…

He started crawling over to his shirts, swaying his hips without really meaning to. He couldn't help it. He was French, after all.

"Le plus tôt qu'il obtient d'ici le mieux!(The sooner he gets out of here the better!)"

"I don't know what you said, but judging from that sour tone, it was about me." He recognised the voice instantly, and hurried to his feet. Why did he have to come in when he was on all fours, damn it! God really DID hate him!

"What do you want, salaud (Bastard)?"

"I think you know what I want, Francis," He smirked, advancing on the weaker Nation. "After all, you've already asked the same question, haven't you?"

With every step forward Germany took, France took one back. But he completely forgot that he was only a few strides away from the bed…

And when he fell onto it, Germany was soon to follow.

"Veuillez, pas encore une fois… (Please, not again)"

"Entschuldigung, (Sorry) I don't speak French" He smirked, slamming his lips against the terrified Frenchman's.

…

After the night's 'Event's, France ran away. From his own home. The second Germany fell asleep, he redressed himself, careful not to wake up the blond, and ran.

The only thing he took with him was his favourite mirror.

"Salaud Allemagne! (Bastard Germany!)" He hissed, running off to England's house.


End file.
